The Travelling Man (3 page)

He left the diner on a wave of laughter as he cracked another bad taste joke that seemed to get the biggest reaction. Some days, he felt like a once famous rock star used to selling out massive stadiums and now reduced to playing crummy hotel ballrooms for a handful of people more interested in the shrimp cocktails. In reality, he was far from the beer laden goodtime oaf that people took him for; it was just that he so longed for the days when he had been the best at something and admired and loved for it. Nowadays, he had to make use of anything to get a reaction. In the land of the truly stupid, the man with a single brain cell was king.

He left the boys and headed home, weaving his way along Main Street. His apartment was some rundown hovel owned by Jim Lesnar himself. He still couldn’t quite believe that his living and the roof over his head were owed to the same geeky bug splat that had once cowered before him under the school bleachers.

His knee groaned in protest as he climbed the steps up to his front door on the second floor of the apartment block. He had blown out the anterior cruciate ligament in his left knee during a football game in college and his dreams of a pro career had died with it. He should have been able to come back from the injury, but during his down time he had discovered beer, girls, and recreational partying. His mind had slipped, along with his rehab, and before he knew it he was kicked off the team and his grades were nowhere near good enough to get him by without his scholarship. He had found a job at the bar where they had all once gone to party, but suddenly he realised just what a joke he had become trying to still hang around the team and be part of the group when he was actually serving them.

He pushed open the apartment door and his nose was assaulted with the stench of leftover food and unwashed clothes. He knew that he should either start cleaning up after himself or else start looking for a cheap cleaner, or maybe a girlfriend.

He entered the apartment on a wave of self pity. Some days he wished that he could just be the ignorant asshole that most people thought he was, but he was still smart enough and self-aware enough to realise just what a mess his life had become.

He kicked the door behind him harder than necessary and it slammed hard enough to dislodge dust from the ceiling. He stood and waited. A couple of seconds later, a thumping came from the apartment below as old man Withers pounded upwards with his cane. The noise brought a small satisfied smile to Marshall’s lips.

He crossed the room to open the window and let a cooling breeze in before he crashed out. He happened to look down to the street below. Standing on the opposite side of the road was a man holding a dark briefcase, dressed in a pinstriped suit. The early evening light had lowered but Marshall could see clearly enough as the man tipped his hat in greeting. Instinctively, Marshall drew the curtains quickly and didn’t dare to peek out again.

CHAPTER
2

down to business

Cassie kicked off her work boots and sat back heavily in the well-worn armchair. Her mother was pottering about in the kitchen and Ellie was in bed. Her daughter tired so much more easily these days and it broke her heart to see her struggle so, especially when Ellie insisted on putting on a brave face to spare her mother and grandmother as much as possible.

Cassie read through the letter again and her fist tightened and crumpled the white paper into a small tight ball in the palm of her hand. Great National Insurance was trying to weasel their way out of Ellie’s rightful claim in a breathtaking act of corporate cruelty.

She fought the bitter sting of hopeless tears that pricked at her eyes. She had cried maybe three times in her life and she wasn’t about to allow the insurance company to be the cause of the fourth. In her capacity as an officer of the law she had taken a solemn oath to serve and protect, but now it would seem that she was failing under her own roof.

Her first instinct, as always, was to charge headfirst into the problem, swinging wildly until she battered it into submission; it was a trait that she had inherited from her father. Big Bob Wheeler had been the Sheriff of Granton for as long as anyone could remember. He’d been a man of large girth and personality that dominated the uniform he wore. He had commanded instant respect around town and nobody ever dared to try and take the man on, either on the streets or at the election booth. When he had passed, Cassie had returned home. It wasn’t a matter of choice; it was a sense of duty and responsibility. Bobby Cohen, the town manager, had convinced her to run and she’d simply assumed the mantle. She knew that there were some in Granton that had their suspicions about a female Sheriff, but thus far she had proved them all wrong. 

“I’m sure that things will be okay,” her mother said softly from the doorway, not wanting to intrude.

“Oh, Mom, I don’t know how,” Cassie sighed. “We’ve got bills coming out of our ears and no way of paying them. If we don’t get that insurance money, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“We’ll think of something. We can always sell this place.”

Cassie fought harder to hold her temper at the thought of her mother losing her home.

“Now, now,” her mother said as she crossed the room and touched Cassie’s shoulder with a dry and wrinkled hand. “It’s only bricks and mortar. It’s nothing important sweetie, we’ll manage.”

Cassie washed her face and turned in early. There was nothing in this world that she hated more than appearing less than in total control, no matter who it was in front of. Her mother was in her eighties now and still put her to shame in the strength department.

She checked in on Ellie and found her daughter sleeping gently. She didn’t recognize the posters on the bedroom wall but Ellie seemed to change her preferences with head spinning speed. Cassie was just grateful that the pictures weren’t dominated by attractive boys yet. Some days, it seemed that Ellie was determined to cram in all of her adolescence before she hit her teens. It was as though the young girl was constantly aware of the ticking time clock hovering above her head. Cassie left the room before she started crying again.

The following morning, Cassie woke bright and early with a freshly laundered sense of determination. For some reason, every problem seemed conquerable beneath the bright sunshine and blue sky.

She dressed in her uniform and headed down to make breakfast for her family, striving to add a normalcy that she rarely felt.

“Having a lie-in were we?” Ellie chimed from the breakfast nook. “Pancakes are keeping warm in the oven,” she pointed.

“You know one day I’m going to beat you down here and actually make breakfast,” Cassie laughed.

“Not a chance,” Ellie smiled, as she sketched in her book.

Cassie still had no idea just where her daughter had inherited her artistic streak; it certainly didn’t come from her. “And what masterpiece are we working on today?” she asked as she grabbed the plate from the oven.

“Oh nothing much,” Ellie shrugged.

Cassie knew that her daughter was always carefully guarded about her sketches and seldom showed anyone her work. Once, when her curiosity had run rampant and she could stand it no longer, Cassie had sneaked a peek and had been blown away by her daughter’s talent. Her strokes were years above her age and there was a maturity and a sadness to her art, but if there was one thing that Cassie respected it was privacy, save for that one occasion when she had snuck into her daughter’s room.

“Busting any bad guys today, Mom?”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll take down Granton’s mafia or bust up our international drug smuggling ring,” Cassie grinned.

“Or maybe you’ll hand out a few parking tickets?”

“Smartass,” Cassie teased.

“Such language first thing in the morning,” her mother said, entering the kitchen.

“She started it,” Cassie said pointing at Ellie.

“Me?” Ellie said, putting on her most innocent face.

Cassie grabbed her coffee thermos and headed out with a mouthful of pancake on a beautiful wave of laughter.

She headed into town in the Sheriff’s truck emblazoned with a large golden badge. She drove slowly, enjoying the moment of peace and
tranquility that overcame Granton before the vast majority of folks were up and out. The town was relatively small and a large chunk of people worked out at Jim Lesnar’s mine a few miles out into the desert. As such, there was rarely much noise in town when the mine was in full swing from night until lunchtime. There were several stores mainly along Main Street all run by locals with the commercial arm of the franchise system not reaching out this far.

Most of her job consisted of day to day boredom, followed by keeping some of the rowdier miners in check after payday. The boys tended to get a little boisterous with a pocket full of cash and a month of pent up aggression. There were two main bars in town: The Nugget, which was on the outskirts of town and used by the miners, and the Oasis, which was frequented by pretty much the rest of the town. The Nugget could get pretty wild at times, especially when she suspected that the owner, Patrick Ryan, was selling more than just alcohol.

She pulled into the police station’s small parking lot. There were two other deputies employed by the town, making their police force three people strong. It was a two person day team with the third working the night shift, but she was always on call in case of an emergency; thankfully, she had never got a late night call, at least not yet.

Her two deputies were Kevin Bridges, a bull of a man, tall and powerfully built. Kevin seemed to live in the gym and she couldn’t ever remember seeing him in anything other than his uniform or sweats. He was an amiable enough guy and while they didn’t
socialize much outside of work they got on reasonably well and he was always handy to have alongside her when she had to take a trip out to The Nugget Bar.

The other prong of her police trident was Tom Lassiter, who was a tall, gangly, good-natured man with a perpetual shy smile. He was 26 with a passion for collecting online qualifications and always had his head in a book. Cassie still had no idea just what Tom hoped to be one day, as his qualifications seemed random without design. He had been with the department for a little under two years now and worked the night shift happily as there was precious little to do during his shift except study.

Tom was waiting patiently in the station’s doorway as she pulled up. “Morning, Boss,” he greeted her cheerfully.

“Morning, Tom. Any news?” she asked.

“Nope,” he shrugged amiably. “All quiet on the Western front.”

She stood silently for a moment and waited.

“Did you know,” he started, as was his way every morning, “that Stephen Hawking once tried to find potential time travelers by throwing a party and only sending the invitations out afterwards?”

“You know, Tom, your head is entirely too small to be carrying around as much information as you do,” she grinned.

“How’s Ellie doing?” he asked and she was a little touched.

“She’s doing okay,” she answered quietly.

“And the insurance company?”

She shrugged in reply. “Same old, same old.”

“Bastards,” Kevin said from behind, startling her. For such a big guy he was shockingly light on his feet. “You gonna sue ‘em?”

“Maybe, but I’m sure that they’d spend years tying me up in litigation,” she said helplessly.

“If there’s ever anything that I can do,” Tom offered.

“That
we
can do,” Kevin added.

“I know, guys. Thanks, really,” she said gratefully. It was always good to feel part of a team. “Tom, get your ass home and to bed,” she ordered.

He saluted comically and with a smile and headed for his car as she got on with the business of starting the new day.

----------

Harlan Harris had spent the whole night staring at the front door, expecting the police to come crashing through it at any second. It was only when the sun had risen over the sandy horizon that he started to wonder if they were ever going to come at all.

He had found Davey’s garage stuffed with cleaning products and had used all the bleach that he could find on the driveway before hosing it down. He had bound Davey’s remains in several black plastic bags and taped them securely. His one time employee and part-time friend was now beginning a new life in a deep hole in the desert.

Harlan had never killed anyone before and he was equally surprised and scared at how easy it had been. The human form was far more fragile than he had thought, especially when pounded into mush by a sledgehammer. His shoulder still ached monstrously from the exertion but he had been loath to take any kind of pain medication in case the police had come for him and he needed his wits unencumbered by dulling chemicals.

His biggest regret was that his temper had slipped and this time it was serious. Once he had snapped at Donald Mercy who ran The Oasis Bar. It had been an even enough conversation about the weekend’s football scores and he had suddenly found himself with a cocked fist ready to strike. He had dragged himself back from the brink on that occasion, but yesterday he hadn’t just slipped; he had fallen headfirst into a cavernous black hole.

He knew that there was some talk of a history of mental illness in the family on his father’s side, but mostly it was just in fact poor gossip. He was worried now about running a business that relied solely on his ability to fly beneath the radar and maintain a certain image, when apparently he could explode with murderous intent at any time.

Eventually he rose, showered, and dressed. As the water circled the drain and turned from crimson to clear again, he started to feel like himself once more, if not better. After all, he may well have just got away with murder and the only regret that he had was the fear of consequences rather than the fear of the act itself.

His mind drifted back to the weird guy staring at him from across the road. He still wasn’t sure if the guy had ever existed at all; it was a day full of breaks from reality, after all.

----------

Becky James started her day with yet another self-punishing trip down memory lane. The photo album sat open on her lap as she devoured the images of her glory days within. There were aging images from plays such as “Romeo and Juliet”, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. She knew that she was torturing herself, but she couldn’t stop. She threw the remote at the TV as some pair of tits on legs strutted across the screen, struggling to act on a daytime soap. The whole thing just seemed so damned unfair when she was so full of undiscovered talent.

She pulled her waitress uniform off of the back of the chair and gave it a cursory sniff and decided that it could stand another day’s usage. She was starting to find that her own levels of personal pride were starting to slip without any real incentive.

The town was short of any real attractive prospects and her main desire was to get the hell out of here and as quickly as possible. The only trouble was that White Knights were the objects of sheer fantasy and unlikely to rescue her anytime soon.

She pulled on the heavy weighted uniform and dressed quickly, refusing to look down at her expanding waistline.

She headed out of the door wondering if today might finally be the day when the winds changed and something new blew across the desert planes and into her life. She wished for something, anything, to break the dreary monotony of her life.

----------

At lunchtime, Cassie took her break on the square by the fountain. It was always strange to her to see a water feature in the middle of the desert, but at the same time it gave her a sense of comfort that civilization and ingenuity could exist anywhere.

She was sitting on a bench watching the world slowly turn. There was a half-eaten sandwich at her side but she had little appetite. Her stomach churned with images of her soon-to-be-homeless mother and it was all her fault. She knew on an intellectual level that she couldn’t be held responsible for the trials that currently befell her family, but yet on an emotional level she did feel responsible.

“Such a pretty lady, but such worries.”