The Bones of Old Carlisle

© 2014 by Kevin E Meredith
Book cover design by Scarlett Rugers Design
www.scarlettrugers.com

Karl Arrowroot opened his eyes a sliver, blinked against the
morning’s first light and began arguing with the upper portion of his
digestive system.

He rolled over on his side, away from the window, pressing the
heel of his palm against his temple and groaning, “hrrrruauaugghh.”
Arrowroot’s suffering was of the same sort people have been
intentionally enduring since there have been people. There’s something
in the human brain that delights in self-impairment, regardless the
inevitable pain that comes after.
Arrowroot got drunk, then he paid the next morning. It had become
a regular transaction of late, and he considered it a fair exchange.
Sometimes he vomited. Sometimes he didn’t. When the drinking went
well, vomiting was fine. Last night, the drinking didn’t go well. He’d
texted her again (Why her? Why did he keep stirring up old ghosts?) If
he cut loose this morning, he would be getting the short end of the
stick.
He reached for the nightstand, fumbled with the buttons of his
police scanner and turned it on. Silence. Nothing on the town channel.
With one bloody eye, he slid the tuner to the county frequency.
Nothing. Then to Fort Shergawa. He heard a discreet oscillating buzz,
the sound of an Army Humvee engine. Someone was on patrol and he’d
kept his mic open. Leave it there, Arrowroot told himself, relaxing,
letting himself roll to his back. Maybe today he would hear what he’d
been waiting for. Maybe.
The buzz soothed him. He felt his first sense of hope in the new
day, and he dozed until a voice awakened him with a start:
“Looks like we’ve got a perimeter breach. Female civilian.”
There was a Southern edge to the voice, subtle but clear enough.
The speaker was probably fresh out of basic training, maybe from
another village not far away, nestled among the mountains of North
Carolina.
“Tango, repeat?”
The reply came from someone in the main compound, someone older,
and probably from up north. If he opened his blinds, Arrowroot could
see where that second voice had come from, a collection of two-story
white buildings at the center of fort operations, just a pale smear
halfway up the mountain across the valley.
Arrowroot would not be opening the blinds yet, of course. The
dappled light squeezing in along the blinds’ edges told him it was the
first real day of spring, a bright, impossibly fresh, breezy April
Saturday. His bedroom was on the second floor, mostly above the trees
that enclosed his stately Queen Anne. Unless he entered a day like
this gradually, it would blind him, probably for good.
He pictured himself trying to navigate the steep, winding streets
of Heligaux with dark glasses and a cane. For sure, he’d stumble off
the Promenade and end up in the Mittelkopp, which this month was
running particularly cold and furious. “Help me!” he’d cry, but the
people of his city would only watch impassively. No one’s arm would be
long enough to reach him. No one’s back would be strong enough to lift
him from the frigid waters. And he would die.
He rolled back toward the window, squinting cautiously at the
rectangle of light.
“Patrol Tango, Patrol Tango, come again?”
“Breach, half-click from Axe Gate on Ring Trail. Female civilian.
In a wedding dress.”
“Huh,” came the voice from base, more an observation than a
question.
“Engage,”
added the voice, apparently unaware of the irony.
Arrowroot reached over with a groan and turned up the volume. He
heard the soldier put his vehicle in park and open the door. This was
starting to sound promising, more promising than anything Arrowroot
had heard in six months.
“She’s walking toward me. Yes, engaging.”
The soldier had apparently stepped out of his vehicle, so the
next words came muffled but still understandable.
“Ma’am, this is a
secure federal area. You are trespassing.”
A pause, then
“Ma’am, stop there. No! Hey!”
The next voice was a woman’s. Her words were at first too far
from the mic to be intelligible, but she seemed to be speaking English
with a vaguely foreign accent. Then her voice rose, or she was closer
to the mic, so Arrowroot could clearly make out her last two words:
“eat me”
Was it a request? A taunt? Was she on drugs, in a sexual frenzy
or just disrespectful? Maybe all of the above, Arrowroot thought. If
he ever got to talk to her, this was going to be a difficult
interview. But she’d been on base, possibly even survived the
forbidden zone, and she might have the information Arrowroot had been
desperately seeking.
The next sound from the radio was at first interpreted by
Arrowroot’s brain as loud tapping.
“pop pop pop . . . pop pop pop.”
But his conscious quickly corrected the data. Gunshots!
The gunfire people usually hear is in movies and on TV, done for
entertainment and heavily processed, loud and big and full of romantic
reverberation, like the voice of a god who kills when he speaks. The
real thing is far less impressive, little pops and pings that don’t
make any fuss as bullets fly forth to rip flesh and scatter living
bone. The real thing over a police scanner is even less impressive,
sounding a little like someone coughing with his head in an oil drum.
But Arrowroot knew what he was hearing.
“God no, don’t!” he cried, as if the soldier could hear him.
“Don’t kill her, you idiot!”
Without thinking, he raised the blinds and peered across the
valley. “Ahhh!” he shouted, immediately turning away and covering his
face, as if he’d been ambushed at the window by a skunk. Eyes closed,
sharp pains shooting through his skull, he tore open his nightstand
drawer, retrieving a pair of sunglasses. One of the arms had snapped
off at the hinge long ago, so Arrowroot held the glasses against his
nose with one finger, squinting into the still too-bright morning.
He could see nothing, of course. Whatever drama was playing out
in the vast military reservation across the valley was too distant to
be observed, and was obscured by trees regardless. Nevertheless,
Arrowroot kept up his desperate search, trying to remember the fort’s
layout and apply it to the green mountainside before him. “Where is
Axe Gate?” he pondered. “Where is Axe Gate?”
The soldier’s voice rang out again, urgent and breathless.
“I
need backup, backup now!”
“Tango, location? Tango, location?”
“Ring Trail, Ring Trail, near the driveup from Axe Gate.”
“Tango, status? Tango Tango, status?”
“Civilian has discharged my weapon.”
“At you?”
“No, at the ground.”
“How many civilians?”
“One. One civilian. Female. Maybe 20.”
“20 civilians?”
“No. No. One civilian. Female, about 20 years of age, in a
wedding dress. Olive complexion, dark hair, white sheath wedding
dress. Taffeta.”
“Use your secondary firearm. Kill or capture. You are authorized
to use lethal force.”
“I don’t have a secondary firearm.”
“You’ve got grenades.”
“Not gonna do that.”
“What’s she doing now?”
“She’s dismantling my firearm.”
The soldier’s voice grew distant.
“Ma’am, put down the weapon and come with me.”
“Is it operable?”
“What?”
“Is your weapon operable?”
“No.”
“Retrieve it and take her into custody.”
“Not sure I can do that.”
A new voice broke in, the deep, slightly urban voice of the
base’s second in command, Lt. Col. Thompson:
“Tango Patrol, what’s
this?”
“Sir?”
“Take civilian into custody.”
“Not sure, Sir.”
“Got damn it, do it now.”
Then Arrowroot heard a woman’s voice, General Brackette herself,
in a tone somewhere between exasperation and pleading:
“Go to secure
channel. Go to secure channel.”
With a click, the radio went silent.
Arrowroot turned back to the window, not sure what he hoped to
see. A soldier of the US Army had just been disarmed by a female
civilian, and that wasn’t going to sit well with anyone at Fort
Shergawa. The soldier was going to get his backup, and unless she
surrendered immediately or ran off, she was going to die. Of course,
if she fled to the forbidden zone, the no man’s land, she was probably
just as doomed.
But if she lived, Arrowroot was going to talk to her, and he was
looking forward to the conversation even if he learned nothing. It’s
not every 20-year-old woman who starts off her wedding day taking guns
from American soldiers.
Arrowroot turned away from the window and surveyed his room,
suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt over the stray clothing and dishes
he’d been dropping everywhere of late. “I’ll clean this place up
tonight, Othercat,” he said to a sleeping white lump at the foot of
his bed. Hearing her name, the cat stretched out her front paws and
yawned noiselessly, her tongue a perfect arc within her wide-open
mouth. “But Daddy’s got some things to do first.”
Cats made no sense to Arrowroot, the only chink in his otherwise
impermeable faith in God. If he’d had time, he would have pondered
their impossibility now. But not this morning. A shower, breakfast at
Bernardo’s, and then, he hoped, he would figure out some way to have a
talk with a violent, drug-addled bride.
Arrowroot set his broken sunglasses down. His hand was shaking,
and the glasses went tap-tap-tap-tap against the dresser.
But he wouldn’t be throwing up this morning. For that he was
grateful.

Feeling weak and still a little woozy but far better than he had
45 minutes before, Karl Arrowroot opened his front door and stepped
onto the porch. Six feet tall, gray-haired and skinny, with a
prominent nose and sharp gray eyes, he was dressed for a safari: olive
cargo pants, a cream flannel shirt, a pith helmet, and prescription
sun glasses – the intact pair he kept in the kitchen.

With his vision corrected, he peered again in the direction of
the fort. From here, of course, it was invisible behind the stand of
evergreens in his front yard. That gonzo bride could have burned half
the fort down by now, he thought, and he wouldn’t see it for the
pines.

Gripping the handrail, he made his way down the porch stairs to
Nander Lane, crossed it and continued descending the mountain on a
public stairway carved long ago into the living rock. The iron
handrail, rusty and drenched with morning dew, left a faint redness on
his hand, and the structure was more wobbly than the last time
Arrowroot had come this way, in September. Half a year of snow and
cold rain had taken its toll. He made a mental note to have it looked
at.

At the midpoint of the stairway, the trees parted to reveal the
glory of his world, spread out beneath and before him: the network of
lanes and old homes where he lived that made up what was known as High
Heligaux; then the smaller homes, shops, schools, warehouses and
churches farther down the mountain, in what was known informally as
Traxie; and at the bottom, the Promenade, Town Hall, the Eden Hotel
and the Mittelkopp, glinting fiercely in the sun.

And then, across the river, Steeple Mountain, mostly forest but
for the buildings of Fort Shergawa, along with a few more ancient
structures where no one could ever walk again.

It had been too long since he’d come this way, Arrowroot told
himself. It had been a hard winter. Cold, with more than its share of
snow. And pain.

He picked his way along a few more old streets and rounded the
corner to Bernardo’s parking lot, relieved to see it was still there,
and crowded. It had been one of the bright places in his life before
things went to hell. His mood darkened only a little when he spotted
the big Harley, blue light in front, painted in the distinctive red
and black of the city police force.

He pushed open the diner door and slid his hat and glasses off
simultaneously, taking in the scene with a sweeping glance. The
restaurant didn’t go silent, exactly, but the room grew perceptibly
quieter. Arrowroot knew almost everyone there by name, and most of
them by character as well, and they knew him. His arrival had been
noted.

A middle-aged woman in a trim blue one-piece dress looked up from
the table of dirty dishes she was clearing. “About time you made it
back here,” she chirped. “Is this an official visit, or would you like
a menu?”

“Menu please, Sharon, thanks,” Arrowroot said. “And I think I’ve
found my table.”
Arrowroot moved toward a booth by Barnardo’s plate glass window,
occupied by a big man with a shaved head, a thick blond goatee and a
network of tattoos across his beefy arms.
“This seat taken?” Arrowroot inquired, not waiting for the answer
before he slid in.
“It’s yours,” the man replied, never taking his eyes off the
computer before him.
“Technically,” Arrowroot began, “I’m probably still drunk, in
case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t wondering.”
“That’s why I walked from home. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t wondering.”
“You still an atheist?”
“I am.”
“How many radios you got there?”
The other man’s light gray eyes grazed the table absently, then
went back to his computer. “Two. City and county.”
“So you heard all that commotion out at the fort this morning?”
“I didn’t.”
Arrowroot chuckled, raised his voice and turned his head so the
rest of Bernardo’s patrons could hear him. “Craziness. Just craziness
out there at Fort Shergawa,” he said. “A girl in a wedding dress out
there, raising hell. I mean raising hell. Franklin, how you doin’?
How’s Trish? You hear about it?”
“No, Karl. Good to see ya, I hope—“
“Oh, my god, she just up and got right in some soldier’s
business, you know? He never knew what hit him. She took his gun right
out of his arms and just started shooting. pop pop pop . . . pop pop
pop! So that soldier fellow gets on the radio, starts shouting ‘he’p
meh, he’p meh, I need backup. Oh my gawd, she’s gonna kill
everything!’”
The bald man continued staring at his screen, but his forehead
wrinkled and his next words betrayed concern. “Mr. Mayor, you okay?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me a little coffee and some toast
won’t help. Sharon, you got that? Toast and coffee, please. Maybe some
eggs, too, what the hell. So you didn’t hear it? You really didn’t
hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“I’ve just been telling you. Some hippie girl’s living out there
in the woods at the fort, she’s gonna get married, so she says to her
betrothed, ‘Honey, I just won’t feel right about getting hitched and
all until I’ve got me a soldier’s gun an’ squeezed off a few rounds.
You got a problem with that?’ And her boyfriend, he’s a hippie too I
guess, he doesn’t give a damn, so off she goes, and the rest is
history.”
“You’re saying this happened today, out at Fort Shergawa?”
“You’re starting to catch on, I believe,” Arrowroot said, leaning
forward on one elbow, staring intently at the bald man. “Yes, about an
hour ago. You need another radio? We can put it in the budget. Then
you won’t keep missing things. Oh, and you’ll never guess what she
told him. This is the icing on the cake. I mean, icing on the cake
with magpie butter. You want to know what she said? You want to hear
it?”
The bald man typed as Arrowroot leaned forward. And then he
whispered: “eat me.”
He laughed and slapped his knee. “I swear to God, that’s what she
said. I swear to God!” Arrowroot paused. “Sorry, I mean I swear to
whatever in the hell it is you pray to.”
“I don’t pray.”
Sharon arrived with Arrowroot’s order and he grabbed her wrist
and looked up at her with deep concern. “Sharon, you see that hoodlum
that’s been raisin’ a ruckus all over town lately?”
“No, Karl, I haven’t.”
“Oh, sure you have,” Arrowroot whispered hoarsely. “He’s bald,
got kind of a mean-lookin’ beard, all covered with tattoos, you know,
of demons and evil things, and probably one that says ‘Mom’ in there
somewhere too. Wears a big gold earring, rides a big old Harley,
scares the hell out of dogs, babies, pregnant women. Got a look in his
eye. . .” Arrowroot picked up a piece of toast and waved it at her
belly. “Got a look in his eye that would just turn this toast black.”
Arrowroot looked at his breakfast companion as if seeing him for
the first time. “Oh my God, Sharon, that’s him right there. Hide your
children!”
Arrowroot laughed to himself, took a sip of coffee and buttered
his toast. “Floyd, can I borrow your phone? No, not your personal
phone, the police one. This is an official call. Thanky.” He dialed
quickly.
“Charles? Yes, it’s me. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sure will, sure will.
Okay, you heard all that commotion at the fort this morning, right?
You didn’t? Oh, you should have. I’m up at Bernardo’s, everyone
talking about it up here. Girl in a wedding dress walked up to a
soldier on patrol, took his gun away and started shooting it. That’s
right, that’s what happened. Huh? Oh, I think someone heard it on the
radio or something. You know, the police scanner. They use public
channels sometimes. No, I don’t think she shot him. I don’t know,
maybe she did. Hippie girl, I think, probably all drugged up. Who
knows, by now she’s probably shot the general. Does the paper still
cover the fort? You do? Well, I don’t know, everyone’s talking about
it, it’s old news by now. No, happened this morning. I mean, everyone
already knows about it, maybe there’s no need to put it in the paper
at all. Well, call the general if you want to, be my guest, but please
leave my name out of it. I mean, if you think it’s worth writing
about. I don’t know your business. Yes, I’m doing well. No, thank you,
no. I’ll see you. I’ll see you soon.”
Arrowroot hung up and slid the phone back over to the bald man.
“When can you go out there with me? Leave in 30 minutes?”
“Can’t go today, sorry.” The man said as he typed, deleted, typed
some more.
“Now Floyd, you know why I want you with me.”
“No, Karl, I don’t.”
“Missing person case. Unsolved missing person case.”
“We’ve got three missing persons cases open. We’re working all of
them as we can.”
“Three? Who are the other two?”
“Simsy duPre and –“
“Simsy?” Arrowroot demanded. “Simsy? Everyone knows what happened
there. He was old, and he felt the sickle of death, if you will, and
he did what his kind of people do. He went off–“
“What do you mean ‘His kind of people?’” The big man was typing
again, but his eyebrows were raised.
“No, you ain’t puttin’ that on me, no sir,” Arrowroot protested
quietly. “I mean people of the earth. Natural people. They can be
white or black or red or purple. When their time comes, they know it
and they take their leave. They go someplace in the wilderness that
means something to them, and that’s where they draw their last breath.
White people do that too. White and yellow, not just black. Some
hunter’ll find his bones in the woods come deer season. Case closed.
Now who’s the other?”
“A minor child, parents divorced, went off with the mom for the
weekend, didn’t come back.”
Arrowroot snorted. “Well, we know what happened there. She’ll
turn up, in a year or 10 years, but she’s not missing.”
Arrowroot leaned forward and took a deep breath. “I’m talking
about a young man, in the prime of life. A poet. A smart boy. A hard
worker. When someone like that goes missing, anyone could be next. It
might be kidnapping. He might be stuck somewhere, with a bunch of
hippies. It might be mur-“
Arrowroot closed his eyes and bent his head down, clenching his
fists and drawing in his breath sharply.
For the first time, the big man looked up at Arrowroot. “I’m
sorry, Karl. I’m sorry.”
Arrowroot took a few more breaths and then looked up, his eyes
wet but his composure otherwise regained. “I knew that’s what you were
gonna say. I really wasn’t expecting any help this morning.”
“Let me know what you find out, okay?”
For five minutes, the men sat in silence, the one typing on his
computer, the other finishing his breakfast. When the coffee was gone,
Arrowroot put on his hat and glasses, and smiled. “You know, Floyd.”
“Huh?”
“I don’ hate you because you wrote me that ticket on Halloween.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hate you because you’re an atheist.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wish me luck.” Arrowroot slid out of the booth, dropped a tendollar bill on the table, raised his helmet to Sharon and strode out.
The big man watched him cross the parking lot and head back up the
mountain, and then he grabbed his phone and dialed.
“Hey, Gabriel. Yeah, Floyd. Doin’ good, doin’ good. Yeah,
weather’s almost good enough for another poker run. You up for that?
Gotta do it. No, I’m still riding that Harley, still happy with it.
Running a little hot, though, the older ones do that, I’m told.
Anyway, just calling – Well, everything good out there this morning?
No reason, just heard a rumor, wanted to –. Yeah, you found a civilian
out there? No, I mean this morning. A civilian this morning? Hello?
You still there? Hey, Gabriel, still there? Hello? Hello? Hi, sorry?
Okay. Hi, Steve. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Floyd Hatfield, chief of
police in Heligaux. No, I was talking to Gabriel Sampras, I think he
transferred me. No, he didn’t say why. I think it was an accident, can
you put me back through to him? Okay, no problem, I just heard you
found a civilian out there this morning. I heard there was some
shooting. Some shooting? No, I mean the civilian was shooting. Hello?
Hello? Hey, Steve, you still there? Hello?”
The big man stared at his phone, raised his eyebrows briefly, and
went back to typing. Then he smiled.